


As You Like It

by mydogwatson



Series: PostcardTales III [17]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: But mostly fluff, Case Fic, Fluff, M/M, Pre-Slash, different first meeting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-08 01:04:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10374333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: A night at the theatre turns dramatic for John Watson.





	

**Author's Note:**

> These are posting more slowly than I had hoped, but life is that way sometimes.
> 
> For those of you who like different first meetings, here is another one. These tales seem to lend themselves to that, as there are several more in the ten remaining tales to be posted. So I hope you like them!
> 
> As always, comments are so gratefully received.

Not that John had anything against Shakespeare, per se. He liked to think that he was always up for a bit of culture [Gilbert and Sullivan were a favourite and he secretly adored Oscar Wilde.] But shouldn’t a Shakespeare play have old-fashioned clothes and be a little more…reverent? Of course, this was a comedy of sorts, but still…

For reasons that escaped him completely, this particular production was set in a Butlin’s Holiday Camp, which probably explained the bathing suits and maybe even the roller skates.

His date, Trudy, was a petit redhead, whom he had met two weeks ago when, by necessity, they had shared a table in a crowded Nero’s. One lunch and one film-with-pizza-after later, here they were. It had been her suggestion, of course; he had fancied asking her to quiz night at his local. But instead, he was in a suit and tie watching very strange Shakespeare and wishing he already had his interval drink in hand.

Not to mention that the tickets had been surprisingly expensive, so it would be beans on toast for the next week or so for him.

At least, Trudy seemed to be enjoying it, if her [increasingly annoying] laughter and pokes to his [bad] shoulder were anything to judge by.

Finally, out of desperation, John decided to ignore what was happening on the stage [square dancing? He might have been more impressed if they were doing the reels while still wearing the roller skates.] He turned his attention instead to the audience, at least what he could see of it in the dim lighting. Some of the people he watched seemed as engaged as Trudy. Others looked bored. Two men were obviously sleeping and one young woman was apparently trying to send a text or something on the phone she had hidden poorly in the folds of her skirt.

After a few moments, John’s searching gaze landed on a man who was sitting alone in a nearby box. Honestly, he looked as if he would have fit in nicely onstage. Not in this ridiculous production, of course. He was too classy by half. No, this bloke belonged in a much more dramatic play. His dark curls and aristocratic profile would suit the part of tragic hero very nicely. 

Maybe his staring had gone on a bit too long, because John suddenly realised that the stranger was also looking at him. Their eyes met and held, which was ridiculous, of course, but neither looked away.

Later, much later, years later, John would always still giggle softly when he remembered that moment, thinking that it was like something out of a bad Hollywood rom-com. And Sherlock would always ask him what was so funny.

Abruptly, the interval arrived.

The curtain came down and the lights came up. Trudy stood and grabbed John’s arm to pull him to his feet as well, forcing him to fumble for his cane. He blinked at her for a moment, before remembering who she was and why she was holding his arm. When he then glanced back towards the box, it was empty.

For some absurd reason, he felt a bit bereft.

With Trudy still clutching his arm, they made their way down the stairs and to the lobby bar, where their drinks were waiting. Trudy sipped her white wine while John swallowed the first gulp of his whisky a little too enthusiastically.

An occasional absent-minded nod seemed sufficient response to his date’s entirely too detailed dissection of the play. John let his eyes skitter across the crowd. Not that he was looking for anyone in particular, of course.

Trudy finished her wine and announced that she was going to the Ladies and would meet him back at their seats. He nodded one more time.

Alone, he relaxed just a bit and resumed his surveillance of the crowd.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

The whispered words were breathed damply into his ear.

John thanked his military experience for the fact that he did not drop his plastic glass and spill the rest of the whisky. Instead, he took a quick gulp. He didn’t even have to turn around to know exactly who was whispering to him. “Afghanistan,” he replied. “How did you know?”

“Oh, please.” The stranger stepped around John and faced him. “Later I will explain how I deduced that you are a former military doctor invalided out after being shot…” He glanced with a slight frown at the cane. “…in your shoulder?”

“Life is complicated,” John said.

“Yes, yes. No time for that now, however.”

“Right,” John agreed. “The interval is nearly over.”

“What? Oh, that doesn’t matter. You don’t care about seeing act two any more than I do.”

“I don’t?”

“Of course not.” The man smiled [which was not an especially reassuring expression for some reason] and leaned closer. “We are going to apprehend a murderer.” He said those words as if he were presenting John with the biggest and shiniest Xmas gift ever.

And for just one silly moment John felt that way as well.

Then his common sense reappeared, albeit reluctantly, because he could not deny that catching a killer sounded like much more fun [was that appropriate?] than watching anymore of what he thought was a desecration of the bard, at least as he remembered the author from secondary school. “My date…” The name escaped him for a moment.

The man gave an elegant snort. “Oh, please. You have no intention of ever seeing her again. She is boring.”

Well, that was true enough.

“Why do you think I want to catch a killer?” John asked, not really caring much about the answer; honestly, he was rather distracted by a pair of green and silver eyes. 

A brow was raised and John shrugged in concession.

“Come on.” The taller man suddenly pirouetted away and headed for the door labelled PRIVATE.

And for reasons John would have struggled to explain to anyone, he followed the madman. At some point he might feel a bit of guilt over the fact that he didn’t even glance towards the auditorium where…Trudy, right, was undoubtedly waiting for him. At some point.

A few moments later, having passed through an empty office and a storage room, they were standing in an alleyway that ran between the theatre and the adjacent Byron Burgers. John realised belatedly that he was bouncing lightly on his toes from excitement. He took a deep breath. “What’s the plan, then?”

The look he received in return was an odd mixture of approval, pride and…well, something else that he couldn’t identify immediately. “At any moment the stage door is going to open. Two men will come out. One of them thinks that he is being offered the chance to buy a stolen Monet. However, the other is actually a paid assassin hired by the first man’s brother.”

“Why?”

A careless hand wave. “Oh, some dispute over an inheritance. Boring. But the government has an interest in the intended victim. And I was desperate for a case. Go stand behind that rubbish bin. I don’t suppose you brought your gun?”

“No, it’s in…wait, how did you know I have a gun?”

A quick smile, but no response. Then John was shoved in the direction of the bin and he took up a position that gave him a good view of the door. The stranger [really must find out his name at some point, John thought idly] stood closer to the door, leaning nonchalantly against the brick wall, and lighting a cigarette. Apparently, he was supposed to look like someone who gave in to his craving for nicotine rather than return to his seat for the second act. John could believe that.

He did think that knowing a few more details about what plan was unfolding here would not have gone amiss. [There was a plan, right?] But it was too late to worry about that now.

The only sound was the noise of the traffic from Tottenham Court Road.

Honestly, John was beginning to think that either this whole thing was some kind of elaborate [and pointless] practical joke or the lanky git was wrong. Or maybe just crazy. That seemed like the most likely option.

The saddest or maybe the most worrying thing was that any of those possibilities still made John happier than he would have been back inside watching the play. With Trudy.

Before he could contemplate that realisation too deeply, everything went to hell. The stage door did indeed open and two men came out. John had no idea which one was the murderer and which the assassin, but it didn’t really matter, because then the door opened again and a third man emerged. A car suddenly appeared at the far end of the alleyway. Someone fired a gun and one of the men fell to the ground. The doctor in John almost went to his aid, but then there was another shot, this one skittering off the brick, barely missing John’s...partner? Accomplice? Crazy git he’d met at the theatre? Then one man, the one with the gun, ran for the car and jumped in.

Later, when John tried to write down everything that had happened [first for the police report and then for his usually dormant blog] he could never get all the details straight. There were a couple more shots fired as the car took off. There was a footrace through the streets of London, with him following the obvious madman in the tuxedo. They climbed fire ladders and hopped rooftops and dodged cars. Death was courted more than once.  
And it all came to a rather anti-climatic end when the car they were pursuing crashed into, ironically, a police vehicle. No one was hurt badly, which was a good thing.

John just stood back, breathing heavily and watching as the stranger gave a dramatic performance that bettered any of the ones that he had seen on stage earlier, explaining exactly what had happened. None of the officers seemed terribly pleased, even the silver-haired detective who eventually turned up.

But finally the hero of the night [otherwise apparently known as the Freak or Bloody Annoying Bastard] strolled over to where John was waiting. 

The hero stopped beside John, hands in the pockets of his scarcely rumpled tux. “Finally,” he said with a faint smile. “They are insisting we need to go to the Yard and give our statements, but I told them that tomorrow would do for that.”

“All right,” John said, feeling definitely rumpled.

“Dinner?” the stranger said.

“Starving.”

“We could save a lot of time by not going back to that alley for your cane.” The words were said smugly.

For the first time, John realised that he’d left the damned thing propped against the rubbish bin. He let that thought sink in for a bit, then said, “I’m too hungry to wait that long.”

“Fine. I know a good Chinese that’s still open.”

John didn’t move yet. “One thing.”

“Yes?”

He held out a hand. “John Watson.”

After a brief pause, his hand was gripped in a larger one. “Sherlock Holmes.”

They walked down the road side by side, as Sherlock explained the best way to judge the quality of a Chinese restaurant.

*

_John giggled softly._

_Sherlock, about to give him a ‘Happy Thirtieth Anniversary’ kiss or two, paused, frowning slightly. “What’s so funny?” he asked._

_“Nothing,” John replied. “I was just remembering the night we met.”_

_After a moment, Sherlock smiled at him and then got down to the snogging bit._

**Author's Note:**

> Title from: As You Like It by William Shakespeare


End file.
